


Let that beat drop

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bad Puns, Based on a Tumblr Post, Galaxy Garrison, M/M, Mild Language, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Shiro dances, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: Shiro has a habit down at the gym that Matt couldn't resist filming and Keith can't resist watching.





	Let that beat drop

**Author's Note:**

> So, [synnesai](https://twitter.com/synnesai) showed me [this post](http://starlinghawke.tumblr.com/post/151317184916/krem-alicious-aclassi-harcules-this-is) and naturally it lead to us talking about Shiro. And like most things, I couldn't resist a little write-up, especially with this idea that Shiro might have been a bit of a fun guy during his Garrison days. Plus, I sort of love the idea of this pre-Kerberos Garrison Trio consisting of Keith, Shiro, and Matt. Also in fair warning, this is probably just my poor sense of humor, but I had fun with it, and if you feel like yelling at me, you can find me over at [twitter](https://twitter.com/ByMidnightFlame).

It starts innocuous enough. 

A camera’s eyes open. In the background, a breath is exhaled, followed by a quiet _perfect_ as the lens focuses and settles into an unwavering view of a white-washed brick wall. Maybe because there’s something clean about the color white. This blank void that invites Creation and gives a world to wayward thoughts and burgeoning desires. Maybe because it’s simply easier to see the scars that mar a surface and just where you need to touch them up to bring it all back to perfection once more. The setting doesn’t really answer these things, but the black floors offer a stark contrast, and the whole thing has the feel of some space-worn time capsule just waiting to bleed into grey. 

Waiting for something.

It’s anticipation that clots in the air, bound up in held breaths. Resting on the floor in plain view is a barbell, stacked on the end with black plates and looking like the back half of an axle-and-wheel set that decided big-rig trucking was not the dream gig for it. The number _forty-five_ is painted in chipped silver on the end plate and stares upside down at the camera. Behind that one sits another plate, and maybe even another. Depth is a difficult thing to ascertain when the angle isn’t just right. 

“What was it last time?”

A low hum washes over the camera. The scene, for its part, remains unmoved. There’s a rustle of cloth followed by a solid _umph_ and another hum of the more considering variety. “Wasn’t it SexyBack?”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure, Keith. I’ll never forget the way you sucked in a breath when he got all low on the twerking line. . .”

“Fuck you, Matt.”

“You love me, pretty boy.” 

“Hmph. I tolerate you.” A pause, and when the next line comes, one can just hear the smirk dripping from it. “And only because you’re Shiro’s best friend.”

“And the man who introduced you to the love of your life, that fine piece of ass you kept drooling over from afar and put the stars in your eyes. You know, beyond the golden glitter that titles like Ace Pilot and Galaxy Garrison’s Brightest Hope and Tall Drink of Water always lend to the gazes that find such a specimen in a place as desolate as this.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Only Pidge, but that’s a brother-sister thing.”

“Have I told you to fuck off yet?”

“That would make the fifteenth time today.”

It’s a hard, amused huff that hits next. “You’re doing pretty good then. . .”

“The day is young. I’m sure it’ll be double that by the time dinner rolls around.”

Silence smothers any further conversation. It comes in suddenly, weighted like storm clouds brewing black and tempestuous on the horizon. The air turns electric. The scene still doesn’t change. Somewhere behind the camera, behind even the two voices with bodies attached, a door slams shut, all heavy metal and purpose. A breath is sucked in. Another is let out with a muffled hint of laughter. 

Footsteps fall with intent, growing ever closer to where the camera sits. Then those stop as well. The intent they carried, however, does not. It puts color into this black and white room, filling it with an energy that threatens to outstrip the known color spectrum. Any minute now and it’ll burst like a kaleidoscopic balloon, spewing blues and reds, oranges and greens, each one cartwheeling out into the universe and reminding the world of how little it truly knows. 

_All the single ladies. . ._

Hips sashay into view. Jutting left and right with each step taken until the owner of said hips slowly comes into view. He’s tall, with a fringe of black bang, the sides and back of his head buzz-cut in what has been deemed as the height of military aesthetic, shirtless and completely oblivious to the camera. It’s nothing but muscle that cuts its way down his back, with that deep furrow running down his spine and a fine sheen of sweat misting his skin. His right arm flies up, and he finger-points to the unknown at the side like a callout at a concert; the left follows in kind seconds later. And all the while those hips bounce side to side with every high-kneed step the man takes towards the barbell.

_All the single ladies!_

He lines himself up with it, about five-feet away, and tosses one hand then the other straight into the air. Laughter cuts through the music. Soon after, Keith snorts out a _shut up_ to which Matt only laughs harder. Yet none of it stops the young man, who dances to a stop front and center of the barbell, swinging his arms from one side to the other in tight little circles that echo the rhythm of the song. 

_Now, put your hands up!_

And up they go, a rocket shot to the stars by the words of a goddess. 

“I’m going to die,” Matt suddenly whispers, his words choking on laughter. 

“After Shiro finds out you’ve been videotaping him. . .” Keith snickers. There’s no remorse in that and trying to find it would be more futile than trying to lick sweetness out of salt. 

“Oh, he knows. . .that fucker knows.”

_I'm doing my own little thing._

Shuffling steps, complete with shoulders lifting and giving his pectorals a little bounce, Shiro moves towards the barbell. He tosses a look over at the two, which gets a little jostle of the camera, and a high-pitched _oh shit_ from Matt. 

The recording doesn’t stop. Neither does Shiro.

_You decided to dip and now you wanna trip. . ._

There’s a clean bend down, the tight grip, another flick of a glance complete with that award-winning smile, and then the jerk lift. Shiro holds it for a moment, just long enough for a look left and right, all in musical time, before he drops the barbell with a little kick-hop of his feet. 

_I'm up on him, he up on me. . ._

“Next time, I’m asking him to lift you.”

“Don’t even think about it, Matt.”

“But that’s what your face is saying. . .”

“I’ll give your face another story to tell.”

Shiro pauses, breathes out. He looks over at them again, throws Keith a wink, then starts snaking his shoulders as he bounces back to his starting place. He gives another circular swing of his arms, right then left, crisscrosses his feet and with head bobbing the whole time, spins with all the streamlined smoothness of a bottlenose dolphin skimming the open ocean.

Keith gives a soft little whine, the sort that comes when an exceptionally good stretch is made, then exhales deeply. “What do you think it will be next week?”

_Oh, oh, oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh_

“Boom Boom Pow.” Spoken like fact. Like there is a sun in the sky, and a moon sharing its light, and just like gravity, some people are simply drawn to one another. “Gotta get that, huh?”

A snort at that. “I hate you. . .”


End file.
